The Fabulous Adventures of Pinkimus & Lavendertron
by Ha-Hee Prime
Summary: Crack! Prime has learned that tasteless paint colors will really freak out Megatron. Now, he's out to show the Decepticon Commander what he's been missing. UPDATE Now with new chapter: Botcon and Revenge!
1. Chapter 1

((Timeframe? What timeframe? We don't need no stinkin' timeframe! This is CRACK!))

**The Fabulous Misadventures of Pinkimus and Lavendertron Amongst the Humans**  
_**-With Snide Comments by Starscream**_

**Part One: Atrocities in Pastel Paint**

"Hey, you were the one who said you were bored," said Prime, pointing the paintbrush at Megatron and holding out a bucket of lavender enamel. "Besides, you have no idea of the fun you'd be missing."

"Oh yes I do," returned Megatron with a shudder, "And I want no part in it. You can't make me!" he shouted, sounding more desperate than he'd intended.

"Oh, I have no intention of making you do anything," Prime replied, in that infuriatingly reasonable tone which Megatron particularly detested. "I'm confident that you'll eventually come to agree with me."

_**Starscream:**_

_They've been going around and around like this for breems. It's enough to make me want to materialize right between them and clonk their heads together hard enough to make 'em see Primus._

_Slag, that'd be fun..._

_Why am I watching these two twits? You may well ask. I don't rightly know myself. It's part curiosity, part self-flagellation, and part some glitchy sense of responsibility, I guess. But you can't deny that they are entertaining... When they're not being such aggravating bolt-brains. Which isn't often. Ah well... such is life. Or, in my case, death... _

[Earlier...] **Prime:**

It's the middle of another uneventful day, in the middle of another round of routine duties, when Megatron suddenly throws down his datapad. It skitters across his desk and falls to the floor. Cracks star out from one corner of the screen. Poor, mistreated datapads- We really ought to treat them better...

Megatron stretches his body straight out and lolls his head back, rebelling against his chair. "I'm BORED," he complains. "Bored, bored, bored, bored, _bored!_ I haven't done anything really crazy in vorns."

I can't help but agree with him. It has been quiet for a long, long time. And he and I, we're not used to quiet. We don't react well to it. We don't _do_ quiet.

I ponder for a while. "Well," I respond, a devilish grin spreading across my face. "We could always..."

He hears the mischievous tone in my voice. Leaning perilously far back on his chair, he tilts his head upside-down over the top of it to look at me. He sees the grin, and flails frantically around until he's sitting bolt upright.

_"No."_

My grin becomes downright immoral.

"NO!"

"You don't know what you're missing..." I tempt.

"You slagging aft! There is nothing, absolutely nothing you can say that would make me do something as lunatic as that!"

He shudders, and I laugh as I watch the memory flash across his face. "Aw, come on," I goad, "When was the last time you got to truly terrify anyone?"

"Painting myself some unholy color and acting like a processor-glitched idiot does NOT count as terrifying. Besides-" I can see that he's clutching at shreds of reason, "You were the one who said it was important for us to be examples... to be on our best behavior at all times..." His voice fades. I know how much he despises that 'best behavior' thing. I've got a foot in the door.

I lay out my next arguing point. "I wasn't thinking of Cybertron. I had an entirely different planet in mind."

He snorts. "What, _Earth?_ What satisfaction could I get out of melting the meaty processors of a few puny fleshlings? You may like them for some unfathomable reason, Prime; but they are still beneath _my_ notice." He's starting to sound sanctimonious. Good.

"What? You're telling me that, after all this time spent being high-minded and forgiving, you've finally lost your taste for revenge?"

His optics blaze red fire, and I know I have him.

"Just think, Megatron... You came down on their planet like a..."

I'm about to say 'like a wolf on the fold,' even though it's just some trite human phrase; but he finishes on his own. "Like a herald of Unicron himself." He smiles in self-satisfied approval.

"Exactly," I agree. "You tore their world apart. They had no idea how lucky they were that you _held back_ so much. You were a destroyer among worms." The evil glint in his eye is growing brighter. Flattery gets me everywhere, and I'm not too proud to use it.

"And yet..." I rudely interrupt the reverie he appears to be enjoying so much. "What have they made you into, in the stories they tell?"

An angry snarl is my only answer. It's all I expected; and it's all I need.

"At best, you're portrayed as a mere foil for me, doomed to fail in whatever lunatic scheme you attempt. And at worst..." Do you remember the day we accessed their fanfiction websites because we were..." I pause for effect. _"Bored?" _

His shudder is audible; it clatters down the length of his entire frame. He pounds a fist down on the desk in front of him. "I will NOT be redeemed by some plucky pre-pubescent fleshling with a heart of gold!" he snarls, before he can stop himself.

"And as for-" he looks askance at me across the room, and I actually see him flinch. _"Guh-uhhh!"_ he adds articulately. I must admit, that as the invisible images from some of those stories hang between us in the air, I can't help but shudder, myself.

"What is it with some of those Earth creatures?" he explodes. "There must be some kind of contaminant in the atmosphere, to give them ideas like that!"

I'm eager to get back to promoting my original plan. "So," I say, leaning forward intently. "Let's have our revenge! Let's give them some memories to torment them in their dreams. Let's knock the foundations out from under the stories they tell about us. Let's, for once, do something that even _they_ have never imagined!"

Megatron looks at the schedule for the rest of the day. It's the same as the one for yesterday, and I'd bet my best high-grade it's the same as tomorrow's, too. He looks back at me.

"I'll... think about it..." he says.

I rub my hands together, and come as close as I ever do to cackling with evil delight.

_**Starscream:**_

_I... I have no words to describe it. Pink. Lots and lots of pink. It's just... wrong. And flames. You know those tasteless decorations that humans sometimes put on their pathetic fossil-fuel-driven vehicles to make them look more... Ridiculous? Yeah. Flames like those. That punk Drift would probably love them. Anyway, Prime has painted some on his pink chassis. There is no possible way that I can describe to you just how unholy this whole getup of his is. He's even done something to the blue parts of his armor. Where they used to be a proper, respectable blue, he's now covered them with this... this sort of light weak-water blue that no self-respecting mech would ever wear..._

_I've got it. This is what he looks like. Are you ready? Imagine what would happen if you threw Elita-One and that other femme, that Moonraker or whatever-the-slag her name is, into the Smelter. And they melted together. And caught fire. There. Do you see it? That's what that fragger Optimus looks like. I have no idea where he gets the cast-iron bearings to call himself the Prime in that getup. I really don't._

_I'm going to have to defrag my processor for about three days, once these two slaggers are finished with their shenanigans; I can tell that already.  
__  
And yet I'm still watching..._

_Did I mention that Prime looks like an idiot?_

**Megatron:**

I'm not exactly sure how the bucket of lavender paint ended up in my hands, but there it is. I stare balefully at it. It refuses to catch fire, or wither away, as it ought to do under the power of my glare. "You're _sure_ this'll wash of, right?" I hear myself asking. My vocalizer actually squeaks a little. I sound just like that ridiculous fragger Starscream always did. (I sincerely hope he's not able to witness any of this. Glitching little twerp. But I must admit, he was never as much trouble as Optimus is.) Thinking about Starscream, I remember that the Mighty Megatron must never sound as if he's afraid of something as trivial as a little paint. I grab the brush out of Prime's hand. "Give me that!" I use my most menacing growl.

Prime looks absolutely ridiculous, by the way. When we get back, and I have retrieved some of my battered dignity, (Not that any of this is going to get _out... __**right**_?) the first thing I am going to do is make it unlawful for any mech to look as ludicrous as Prime does right now. Scrap like this should be punishable by a vorn's hard labor, at least. It's an insult to our entire race, having a monstrosity like him walking around. If I ever find out that some lunatic mech gave him this idea, I am telling you right now that that mech is going to have a painfully intimate discussion with the end of my fusion cannon.

Great Cybertron, this paint is cold! And sticky. And sort of slimy... Ugh, this is so disgusting. When we get back I'm going to have to stand in the washracks for at least an orn and a half before I feel clean again.

I've never bothered to paint most of my plating. After a few megacycles of tearing around in the fight pits, paint started to seem like a waste of time. While other mechs (and here I am of course referring again to Starscream) would fret about the slightest scratch, I just stopped worrying about it. It was pathetic, the way some of those fraggers carried on. Listening to them, you would have thought appearance was more important than structural integrity! I have no idea how some of them lasted so long.

The only painting I ever did was to splash a few swipes of red across my face for an extra bit of fear factor. It actually worked on some of the fools I faced. When they saw those well-placed smears, and the scarring I'd allow to build up (OK, sometimes I'd augment it just a little with a particularly artistic scrape or two), I swear, some of those mechs would take one look at me, and burn rubber out of there. It sent a clear message, you know? It showed them that I didn't care how much they tore me up, I was going to see their sorry hulks straight into the Pit.

This color, on the other hand... This "lavender"- It's an insult to the depth and power of purple. I wouldn't put it past Prime to have chosen it on purpose. I love purple. It's regal. It commands respect. But this pathetic, washed-out, wimpy excuse for the color should be banned. I can see why there were (so Prime _says_) two whole buckets of it lying unused in the back of the workroom closet. No self-respecting Decepticon would _ever_ wear this.

Um... Apart from me, it seems. Slag...

We're going to go back now to talking about mechs who care too much about their finish. Because I certainly don't. Obviously. Yes. Besides, it's not only the Decepticons who whine about it. Some of Prime's Autobots are, if possible, even worse! For instance, just the other day, I was passing that pretty-boy Lamborghini and that know-it-all aristocrat Tracks (or maybe it's Trucks?), and may Unicron take me if they didn't get into a full-blown argument about the relative merits of different types of polishing wax! Polishing wax? Who has time to _buff himself_ when there's a _war_ going on?

_Was_ a war going on...

Frag, I'm bored!

This had better be as much fun as Prime seems to think it is.

I don't even bother to glare at him as I hand the paintbrush to the slag-sucking know-it-all glitch so he can do my back and help with some of the little fiddly bits. _Lavendertron?_ There is no possible way that anything good can come of such an appalling pseudonym.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two: Oh, the Humanity!**

* * *

_**Starscream:**_

_I honestly can't recall a giddier moment in my entire life. Granted, I'm having to hold back the urge to purge, but it's a small sacrifice, and worth every moment of nausea. Megatron is-_

_Megatron... is..._

_There are no words which could possibly describe it. You see, Prime wasn't content to simply paint him up like an affront to mechly moral decency everywhere. Oh no. Primus, I'm glad that slagger never got into my processor the way he seems to have cross-wired Megs's mind! It's the only explanation for what my Glorious Leader has done. See, once the Mighty Megatron handed over the brush, he must've shut down his optics or something (I always said he was a coward) because while he wasn't watching (and he of all mechs ought to know that you never take your optics off Prime for one single astrosecond), the Sacred Bearer of the Matrix of Leadership took a smaller brush and a few tiny jars of various pastel colors from his subspace, and started putting slogans on ol' Megs. Who deserves everything he gets, I might add._

_I don't think he's fully realized the extent of the damage, to be honest. He hasn't blown a fuse yet; as I'm certain he would if he noticed things like, "Say nO to gUnz!" scrawled across his chestplate, or "Free Kittehs Dispenssed Heer!" written along his fusion cannon. _

_I will treasure these images forever. And speaking as an undying ghost, I am telling you that I know what forever means!_

_It's- It's- Wondrous to behold, is what it is._

_But I think I'll just go ahead and purge now, if you don't mind..._

* * *

**Introduction:**

"You'll need this," said Megatron, holding out a smallish, flatish piece of grayish material toward Prime. "You know they won't recognize you without it." He kept quiet about his hope that no one would recognize them, anyway, in their new, hideous colors.

"What is it?" asked Prime, coming closer.

"A mouthplate, idiot," said Megatron impatiently. "I would have thought you'd recognize the shape by now..." He dropped the item into Prime's waiting palm.

"But it's... plastic..."  
Megatron grinned. "Hey," he shrugged. "It's not like you gave me a lot of forewarning on this enterprise. I just made it with the materials that came to hand, ok?"

"But how did you get plas-" Optimus noticed the evil twinkle in his old adversary's coal-red optics, and stopped. He supposed the old bully was entitled to get just a bit of his own back. He said no more about it, but clicked the gray plate into place. Immediately, although it was only light plastic, he felt less naked than he had in many vorns. He was ready indeed to face the world, and pwn it with pinkage.

"That's more like it!" he exulted. "Let's go have some fun!"

* * *

[Some While Later...]

_**Starscream:**_

_Of course they went to Botcon. Why should I have expected anything else? A pleasant Summer day on Earth, the sun shining, those tiny feathered flapping things shrieking and chittering away as if anyone cared what they had to say... And torrents of crazed humans pouring in and out of a tall, square building, screaming to one another in frenzied voices, or scurrying with a worrisome intensity, heads-down, between the shoulders of the others around them, aiming to reach some secret place before the rest of the horde got the same idea..._

_And did I mention that all of this insanity revolves around us? Apparently, there is some new religious sect amongst these fleshy life-forms that worships us, despite (or, knowing them, perhaps because of) all that we have done to them and their planet during our stay here. And it seems that this is one of its assemblies. Hey, I never once claimed that the humans made any sense!_

_So yeah, Megatron and that glitch-head Prime fired up an old space-bridge, set its coordinates for Earth, and stepped through._

_Why did I follow them?_

_I may never know the answer to that._

* * *

**Megatron:**

Over and over again, I blink to refresh my optical array. But I still see the same unbelievable mess. We're hovering above a city, which would be fine, except that the place where Prime wants to land is a crowded square filled with what can only be described as... As... Well, as humans dressed up like us. In a very broad manner of speaking.

Oh – I imagine you've caught that little reference to Prime being up here with me. In the air. Flying. Well, let me tell you, it's not nearly as fun as he would like it to be. Oh, no. Because, you see, of course I have to carry him. I always try to make it as ignominious for him as I possibly can. I blasted off with him slung over my shoulder; but now I've got him under the arms, because he demanded that I 'let him see.' I'm doing my best to make him aware of his precarious position, as his feet dangle a thousand feet above the hard cement below.

But this blasted wretch just refuses to show proper fear.

Because, slag me for a tub of waste-fluid, he knows I'll never actually drop him...

Sometimes I'm a little uneasy about making these digs at his inability to fly. After all, I know he's jealous. That's why I tease him about it, of course. What good is it to tease someone about something they don't give a scrap about not having? But the slagger is subtle, when he's not being a mawkish lout. I really, really hope he never comes up with some dastardly scheme to get his revenge on me for torquing his solenoids the way I do...

Oh...

Yes, all this insanity might indeed have something to do with that...

* * *

**Prime:**

I point a finger. "There. Down there, see, where all those humans in costumes are gathered? We'll blend right in."

We won't, of course. We'll tower above them all. Even the admittedly impressive 15-foot Starscream costume is only half-size. And we're alive. Our construction is blatantly sturdier and more realistic than even the best costumes here. We don't move in that anxious, slightly-off-balance jitter that most of the costume-wearers do. Despite an attempted appearance of strength, many of them look as though a gust of wind would knock over or shred them. We, on the other hand, have lived in these shells long enough to know that even a torn-off arm is easily mended, if you don't mind a little berating by a longsuffering medibot.

But blending in is not the point. Oh, no. The humans have probably spent a considerable portion of their short lives in the construction of these trappings; and I mean no disrespect to their labors. But I can't help but tense a little in anticipation. What an entrance we will make!

I have no idea of what is about to happen. And I revel in that uncertainty. I've spent far too much time over the last few vorns carefully weighing my every action. The time has come...

To wing it!

* * *

_**Starscream:**_

_They land with a suitable 'whoomp!' in the middle of a crowd of delusional fleshlings. I notice, though, that Prime is very careful to make an entrance without squashing anyone. That must be hard to do. And the look he gives Megatron ensures that my old Commander – the fearsome tyrant and the bringer of death to uncounted beings – does the same. The old monster's pained expression as he carefully places his huge feet on bricks instead of blockheads is a singularly heartwarming sight. _

_Of course, they are immediately thronged by ecstatic fans. Confused fans, to be sure. More than a few deeply disturbed fans, I am certain. But judging by some of the other things I've seen at these Botcon gatherings, a pink Prime and a lavender Megatron are nothing more than a mild note of variety amidst the general insanity. In fact, I hear a few triumphant shouts along the lines of, "I knew it!" But as to exactly what that exclamation might refer, I doubt if even the squeaker knows._

_I watch Megatron squirm for a while. But then my attention is caught by a tall (by puny human standards) replica of myself. It would come up to about my middle, if I still had a body... (Curse you, Megatron!) There are, in fact, many tributes to my glorious person among the crowd. I try not to think about the deeper meaning of some of the stranger ones... after all, who would think to make up a female human perversion of my perfect self? To my deep displeasure, there are more than a few of those present. Ah well. I suppose tribute is tribute, no matter how depraved._

_What was I talking about? Oh yes. The big(ish) Starscream costume which everyone had been so excited about, until Prime and Megatron showed up and spoiled his game. I'm not sure exactly where the little human fits inside it, or how he makes it run... or how he makes it talk in what I can only assume he thinks is an impersonation of my voice. (Let me make one thing clear right now. I do not sound that whiny!) But one thing I do begin to wonder about, as I watch it waddle over closer to the two hideous mechs who had appeared there, is whether I might be able to make use of him for my own private purposes. Not to put too fine a point on it, I begin to see this tottering excrescence as a delicious means of getting my revenge._

* * *

**Prime: **

I'm having the time of my life. I set my optic sensors to record, just so I can laugh at all this with Elita later on. She'll probably have a few short, sharp words for me, but after she's said her piece, we both know she'll be amused. She knows I need to blow off steam every so often.

The frenzied lunge toward us seems just about evenly split between Megatron and myself. Before I know it, several humans have begun to clamber up my legs, and I have to remind them that tickling a being who is 6 times taller than they are is probably not a good idea. There is a lot of laughter going on around my feet in any case, although there are a few angry glares. It seems that a Prime in pink is not what some of the humans here would have preferred to see. I hunch down, and sit carefully between the press of humanity. I give them a brief lecture: try not to tickle the lines in my joints if you don't want to be accidentally flung onto the roof of the nearest building; no, I don't 'have anything' under my pelvic plating; and yes, if they're careful, they can climb up. I'm having the time of my life.

Megatron isn't, though. There seems to be something the matter with his adoring fans. Apart from the anger of those who don't seem to have a sense of humor, there is a worrying number of Starscream lookalikes who seem to be taunting him in a manner eerily reminiscent of the deceased Air Commander...

* * *

**Megatron:**

This must be Hell. The Pit. The Smelter. Whatever. I'm not sure even I deserve it. Optimus has a long list of things to answer for, starting with this vile color he's convinced me to wear. And don't think I haven't noticed the slogans.

But what's worrying me now is the Starscream-fleshbags. They are swarming. I never did like to be swarmed; in the Arena I would make short work of any team that attempted to surround me - even if it meant throwing one of my own into the fray to distract them until I could cut a swath through their pathetic bodies. Now, thanks to Prime's accursed morality, I am not allowed to squash, mangle, wrend, distort, or otherwise molest in any way these creatures who are most certainly molesting me. I have no idea what they think half the things they're shouting at me mean, but I know a lecherous tone when I hear it. And although they seem to have no real idea of what they're doing, I get the distinct feeling that in their society, these actions would fall under the category of Bad Touch.

My life is pain.

I look for some distraction from my own difficulties by turning to that slagger, Prime, in hopes that he'll be just as discomfited as I am. I should have known better. He's not acting like a bot at a pleasure station by any means, but he's certainly in his element. Leave it to Prime to get along even with insane flashbags.

* * *

_**Starscream:**_

_It takes time, and a supreme effort. But I am nothing if not persistent, and in the end, I get control of the fleshling who controls the largest costume of my glorious self. I savor the anticipation of my imminent victory. _

_"Megatron," I whisper through the fleshling's vocal apparatus. And to my everlasting joy, he turns toward me, with an expression of sheer horror. _

_He should recognize my true, real voice - he spent enough vorns listening to it, after all. I reach out, and snare another costume-wearer. "Megatron," I hiss through multiple mouths. Practice makes perfect, and soon I have an army under my control: an army of possessed humans with only my will controlling them. It's odd - it was a whole lot easier than I'd anticipated to get into most of them. Do they secretly want to be me? My ego swells - even though they are but lowly creatures, it stokes the fires of my burned-out spark to know that there are many, many beings in the universe who want to be me enough to surrender their personality to mine. _

_"Megatron. Megatron. Megatron! MEGATRON!" My thrall-creatures close in on him, their hands reaching, their mouths calling out his name in accusation. And they all call with my voice. He cannot hold out against this for much longer - I can see the terrified revulsion in his wide-open red optics. _

_"Prime!" he gasps. And I have won. I let him know it through the mouth of the largest Starscream, who leans in to touch him and whispers, "Tag, your Mightiness. You're it!"_

_I let go of the fleshlings - it's almost as much fun to watch what they come up with to embarrass my old Leader on their own - and sit back to watch and wait. And smirk my trademarked mirthless half-smile._

* * *

**Prime:**

There's something wrong with Megatron. Or perhaps with the humans who surround him - they are acting almost hypnotized. But just as I start to really worry, the spell (or whatever it was) breaks, and the human Starscreams who'd been thronging him in a surprisingly aggressive manner all disperse. Some shake their heads, as if they too are wondering what has just happened. "Are you all right?" I ask him. And he lashes me with a torrent of vitriolic language that by rights should bleach the side of the adjacent building. He's probably right. But I'm feeling selfish. Plus, I want him to experience, even if just for one moment, the subversive freedom that comes through this admittedly odd getup we are sporting.

Careful not to squish anyone, I get to my feet. "Come on," I say. "Let's give 'em a real show."

"Kiss! KISS!" yells someone in the crowd. And within seconds they have almost all taken up the chant. Megatron sees my discomfiture, I realize, and he is reveling in it.

"That's not the kind of show I had in mind," I say, with all the power that my voice usually commands.

But this time, there is some malfunction. Not even the Voice seems to be working. And Megatron is getting a quite scary look on his face... Oh Primus, that grin... I fall back a step; can't help it; this is NOT what I had planned for.

"All right, Optimus?" asks Megatron. But I am not all right. "Here," he says. "Let me help ya." And in that moment, I know I am fragged.

Megatron with the light of revenge burning in his optics is something that no one in the universe should ever see. But there it is, inches from my own wide optics. I know that my terror is plain to be read; but that blessed plastic faceplate is saving me from wide-mouthed embarrassment-

Mergatron rips it off! He flings it out into the crowd! (They scream and fall into a squirming heap to wrestle for it.) Megatron grabs me, pulls me close, splits his face in a dark smile of ultimate malevolence...

...And plants a huge kiss on my poor naked mouth.

I hope it was worth it to him, that blasted, selfish, depraved spawn of darkness! Yeauch! I wipe my mouth clean of its disgrace. "Happy now?" I ask in acid tones.

"Yup," he replies. He's all but skipping, and his grin threatens to split his whole head in half. "Primus, that was worth the wait!"

I groan. All the fun's gone. Well, almost all the fun - even I have to admit that I had it coming. I sigh, and straighten my slumped shoulders. "All right," I say. "We're even now. Can we go home?"

"No."

"Aw, come on! Why?"

"Because I refuse to allow these filthy humans' last sight of me to be in this vile affront to purple. We are going through a car wash. Then we are coming back here. Then - and only then - we can go home. Brother."

He's having so much fun it seems a shame to spoil it for him. So I shrug, transform (to an almost-frothing response from the gathered crowd of humans) and follow his tank-treads down the road to a large truck-wash.

Removing paint - even cheap water-based paint - is a fiddly, uninteresting process, so I'll spare you the details. But in the end, we do both return in some measure of triumph to the humans' celebration. And I remember why I love these people. They sure do know how to have a good time together.

* * *

_**Starscream:**_

_He returns, and I have to admit I respect him for it. Once more, I make use of the human who runs the largest Starscream rig. "Master," I say, and through the rig I execute a gracious bow. "Your victory today was indeed sweet. And I was happy to be here to see it._

_For a moment, he looks disconcerted. Then he shrugs, smiles, and to my surprise, bows back (an almost-imperceptible bob of the head, no more). "Starscream," he says, then moves on through the adoring crowd of fleshlings. And I let go my hold upon the human in the costume so that they can emit a piercing shriek of glee at this acknowledgement from the Decepticon Commander himself. I feel good. Overall, this has been a good day to be ghosting._

* * *

**_Author's Afterword:_**

_A long time ago, Pinkimus appeared in a glorious RP which lives on in remembered glory to this day. One of his many exploits was smacking a big ol' wet one on a horrified Megatron. Revenge is best served in pastel colors, it appears. _


End file.
